


is this sound okay?

by firstaudrina



Series: 1990s musicians au [3]
Category: Gossip Girl
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-08 00:57:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6832354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstaudrina/pseuds/firstaudrina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere along the way he lost his voice, and you could say he's on the lookout for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	is this sound okay?

Dan's mom found a box of his journals from when he was fifteen or so, a dusty cardboard box of adolescent longing tucked in a corner of the attic. Dan sits on the floor in the middle of his apartment and reads them one by one. He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

He plucks out lines here or there, scribbling them down on scraps of paper, and then gets his guitar to start piecing it all together. It's a puzzle put together to reveal the full picture of his teenage angst. He gets a kick out of it.

The body of the guitar is plastered with stickers, a joke from Jenny: they're years-old Blair stickers, sparkling up at Dan silver and pink and mass-produced. Little girls probably stuck them on their composition notebooks and practiced infant contempt when interacting with girls who chose Serena stickers instead.

Dan only uses this guitar privately at home, away from prying eyes. The thing with him and Blair is enough of a public joke.

Everyone likes to point fingers at him for breaking up Blair's engagement. There was a skit on SNL about it; music magazines put forth think pieces on their alleged genre-spanning affair. Someone even asked Blair about it during an interview, live and televised. She was wearing a graphic black and white minidress, her lipstick bubblegum pink. She smiled enigmatically and said, "We're collaborators."

Dan probably isn't supposed to like the sound of that, but he does.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Vanessa won't speak to Dan outside of the recording studio, and even then it's in terse, clipped phrases.

The second album is bloated and incomplete and the pressure is ever-ramping. Jenny is already on her third album, each more critically acclaimed than the last, and the label wants the same sort of success from him – that, or a business-savvy breakdown to keep public interest. They don't care if Dan rises or falls, so long as he does either with full conviction and drama. So Dan can't think lately. He can't sleep. He can't write.

"Maybe you should go somewhere quiet for a while," Vanessa says. "Like rehab."

Dan sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "I'm fine," he says, which has become near-litany. "I cut back a lot."

It's the truth, sort of. He doesn't know that the need for it is burning in him like it was before, but that might be one of those lies people tell themselves.

"Then I guess you're just busy with the pop tart," she says.

Dan looks at her. "Are you just being a bitch or are you jealous?"

Vanessa glares at him for a beat, then grabs her bag, spitting out a low _fuck you_ on her way out. It's how most of the recording sessions go these days.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Music plays quietly in Dan's bedroom, the TV going at the same time, the lights low. Blair sits cross-legged in the center of his bed reading a spread in _People_ about Serena's unexpected Vegas wedding, a disapproving frown on her face. Dan's knuckles brush over the small of her back to get her attention.

"I want to go somewhere," he says. "Get out of the city for a while."

"Okay," Blair says without looking up. "I'll see you when you get back."

Dan rolls his eyes. "No," he says. "I mean _with you_. I want to get out of the city with you."

Blair glances over at him with a sly smile. "I'm in very high demand," she tells him. "I don't think I could spare the time."

He sits up so he can kiss her shoulder. "Plead exhaustion."

"Everyone's going to think I'm on a crack binge or something," Blair says. "Where would we go?"

"I don't know," he says. "Somewhere no one will bother us."

"Does a place like that even exist?" She pushes him back with a gentle poke to the forehead. "Anyway, our little roadtrips don't seem to be very successful, do they?"

Dan doesn't need the reminder. He changes track. "We can go wherever you want."

Blair abandons the magazine to wind her arms around his neck, lean into his body. Lately she's been allowing him to see her without all the glittering trappings of Blair Waldorf, pop sensation. Tonight she wears no makeup and a simple gray babydoll dress patterned with small electric blue flowers, a line of tiny buttons down the back that Dan will enjoy unfastening one by one. She kisses him full on the mouth, her own way of redirecting the conversation.

"I want to be right here," she says.

Who is he to argue that?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dan has taken to haunting a few Lower Manhattan bars, and not just for the booze.

He goes in a few nights a week to tip back a solitary whiskey and churn out some songs. He does covers mostly, because they're safe and easy; he can't find a way to set his own pain to music so he'll allow it to filter through other artists, other songs. He tries not to fall into a schedule with his impromptu performances so he won't be anticipated – the unexpected, spontaneous feel is half their charm. He usually goes very late or very early, and chooses whichever bar looks the emptiest. Word hasn't really gotten around about it yet, or at least people seem to be respecting his privacy with this, if nothing else.

Somewhere along the way he lost his voice, and you could say he's on the lookout for it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blair's latest album has been received tentatively. A few people called it a game-changer but mostly the reviews came off politely curious, as though the entire thing was a belated April fools. It's a transitional album, they say. She's growing up, they say; she's growing claws. Who would have expected such edge from the ladylike princess of pop?

The album is called _bubblegum bitch_ , which, Dan believes, Jenny once called Blair in the heat of an argument, an insult as ridiculous as it was furious. Jenny grouses that she ought to sue. Blair takes what she can from people to propel herself forward. Everyone in Dan's life likes to remind him of that very pointedly.

The ads are everywhere, plastering the subway and the streets. In them, Blair stares out challengingly from an ironically candy-pink background, heel of her hand smearing pink lipstick across her face like melted ice cream, or blood.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blair says, "I want you to go on tour with me."

When Dan does not respond except for a raised eyebrow, she huffs a little and puts her hands on her hips and generally does her best to imply that he is acting ridiculous for not acquiescing immediately. "What's that face?"

"If I invited you on with us…" Dan starts. He's tuning his guitar, and he finds having his hands occupied makes him more likely to be patient with Blair. "To go on before us. To tag along. What would you say?"

"I'm not an opening act," she says, seeming offended at the thought.

"Well, there you go."

"You're not _either_ ," Blair insists. She drops onto the couch next to him, legs curled beneath her, and stills his hand on the strings with her own. "I thought you wanted to go somewhere with me."

When he looks at her, she gives him such an overly pleasant smile that he laughs. "I'm not even going to consider it unless you give me the real reason."

But Blair is not a person easily swayed. She takes the guitar off his lap and sets it aside before taking its place, straddling his thighs. "I want you to come with me. It can be that simple, Humphrey."

Except it isn't, not with her.

Maybe she thinks she can puff up her new artistic image with him coming along. Maybe her ticket sales aren't doing so well and she wants to capitalize on their media scrutiny – who wouldn't come to see if the pop princess and folk rock legacy really do make eyes at each other like the magazines say? Maybe it was the label's idea, not even hers.

"They'd never agree to it," he says finally, not an intentional agreement by a long mile. "The other guys. Vanessa. Not in a million years."

"Then I suppose it's up to you to be very convincing," Blair says, and before he can respond she covers his mouth with hers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dan is aware that at no point did he actually agree to go on tour with Blair, but he's also aware that declining was never really an option. She would ask and he would go and that's just the way it would be.

As expected, Vanessa and the other guys are far from interested.

" _You_ can go," Vanessa says. "I wouldn't be caught dead."

Resentment slithers up his spine. "Yeah, well, who asked you?" he says, even though he just did. "We're not Dan Humphrey and the Pips. It's just Dan Humphrey. And the people holding the instruments."

Vanessa looks at him like he slapped her. "You're such a joke," she says. "Who are you lately?"

"A washed up drunk, I hear," Dan says. "Apple didn't fall too far from the tree, I guess."

Vanessa colors just slightly. "Don't do that," she says. "Don't make me _pity_ you."

"Why not?" Dan says, a touch tauntingly, just to be an asshole. "I do."

Vanessa releases a frustrated breath and turns away. "Go, then," she repeats. "See where the hell it gets you."

It isn't officially a joint tour. It's not the entire Dan Humphrey experience, after all; as far as they're selling it, Dan is just tagging along in a _friendly_ capacity and if the fans are _very lucky_ maybe Blair will invite him up on stage. The thing works like gangbusters, leaves a sour taste in Dan's mouth. Their shows are sold out all over the country.

It goes like this: Dan is never the opening act. Rather, once Blair has sufficiently dazzled her audience on her own with the mix of new stuff and re-imagined old stuff, she trots Dan on stage like it's a big surprise every single time. They sing together, and then she goes away to let him sing alone, and then she takes the mike back alone to finish the show. Dan goes to have a drink.

After the show there's partying sometimes but traveling mostly. Blair doesn't like the bus even though hers is basically a palace on wheels, about six times nicer than anything Dan ever rolled around in. But for all her complaining about being a sardine, she seems to find herself constantly giving up her space to remain cozied up next to Dan. He doesn't hate it. Obviously, he doesn't hate that.

At the end of the day Dan wouldn't do any of it differently. His hang-ups are made inconsequential nightly when Blair leans in close to his mike and smiles at him like they aren't on a stage in front of thousands, like they're alone. When she falls asleep curled in that coffinesque bus bed with him. He wouldn't give that up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

One night when it's late and dark and the only sound is of wheels hitting asphalt, Blair murmurs, "How much did you have to drink today?"

"Not you too," he says.

They're supposed to be sleeping. Both of their heads are on Dan's tragic little pillow, their bodies pressed close in the narrow space. It is not the place for serious conversations about Dan's supposed alcohol addiction.

"It seemed better for a little bit," Blair continues, undeterred, her fingertips tracing little curlicues on his chest.

Dan gives in. "It's worse on tour, I guess."

"You should've told me."

"There's not really anything to tell."

Even in the dark, Blair's skepticism radiates. "When we went to see your father –"

Dan cuts her off. "I don't want to talk about that."

"Humphrey, you fight it so much," she sighs. "I see you do it. But what are you even fighting? Where is it getting you?"

He shifts onto his back, which brings Blair onto his chest a little more. When they had gone to see his father –

"Isn't that a self-fulfilling prophecy?" he muses. "I don't want to be him so hard that I become him anyway."

"You aren't him," Blair murmurs. "You're you. You've just got some not-unexpected commonalities."

The arm around her hugs her closer. "It's not as bad as it was," he says, which isn't a lie.

Rufus hadn't been there, when they went. He'd moved. There was no forwarding address, and he hadn't seen fit to tell anyone where he had gone.

Dan's not sure what he expected, really.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Their last show is in Los Angeles and they hang around the venue a few hours beforehand, sort of rehearsing and sort of fucking around. Blair is trying to learn the guitar so Dan is trying to teach her but she is, unsurprisingly, not a very pleasant pupil.

She's got a little crease between her brows, lips creased in a frown as she arranges her fingers. Then, statement at odds with her expression, she says, "I have something for you."

"Is it respect for my teaching skills?" Dan asks, rearranging her hand.

"No," Blair says. "Hold on."

She comes back and gives him a cassette. It has a little white label with her neat handwriting spelling out _for Dan_. Confused, he turns it over in his hands. "What's this?"

"A demo," Blair says matter-of-factly. She picks up the guitar again.

"Already?" he says. "Your album just came out."

"No, it's for you."

Dan looks at her. "For me?"

She rolls her eyes. "That _is_ what I said, Humphrey."

"You made me a demo," he says slowly.

Blair huffs a little. "Are you brain damaged? I wrote some songs for you. I know your album's all –" She waves a hand vaguely. "Anyway. I just. Wrote some for you."

For a moment, Dan isn't sure what to feel at all. Offended is always a good choice – does she think he needs her to come up with music for him? – but he isn't offended. Perhaps this is Blair evening the scales, paying him back. But then he notices she's holding herself a little stiffly, like maybe she's _nervous_ or something.

Softly, he asks, "Why?"

She gives him a faintly annoyed look. "Inspired, I suppose," she says.

Later, once the tour is over and they are ensconced in her Manhattan hi-rise again, she elaborates. Dan has grown kind of reluctantly fond of her lush all-glass space age home, even if he's always afraid of leaving fingerprints.

"You know, when you sing…" Blair starts, trails off. She fidgets a little, appearing discomfited. "You sort of – sort of lean in and, I don't know, curl around the mike, and your hair's in your face… And you close your eyes, like you're listening. It's very intimate. It's like watching you while you're alone."

His hand rests on her stomach, stroking gently up and down. "That's how I feel when we sing together," he says.

Blair looks at him, agrees, "Yes." She admits, "It's very sexy."

Dan smiles a little and teases her, "Are you just being nice to me because I have daddy issues?"

"Ugh." Blair wriggles out of his grasp so she can reach for a pillow and smack him upside the head with it. "Yes, and it was the _last time_ , so I hope you enjoyed it."

 

 

 

 

 

Dan goes back to his apartment, much neglected over the last few months, and listens to the demo there. He sits in the middle of his living room and listens to Blair sing songs she made up for him, the Blair-plastered guitar sitting next to the stereo. Jenny had come over to get the mail and water the plants, and as a dick move she left an array of tabloids on the coffee table that feature him and Blair. Dan listens and sits surrounded by all of that and wonders what exactly he's running from.

Dan stays up all night and at the end of it he has twelve songs. Twelve songs, and every last one of them is about Blair.

There is time for his loneliness and time for his tangled feelings about his father but tonight can be about Blair. He can stop pretending that tonight is _not_ about Blair.

Dan doesn't waste recording studio time. He takes Vanessa for fries and a walk, and they feel sort of normal, for once.

"I think we're going in different directions," he tells her.

Vanessa gives him an amused-if-skeptical look. "Are you breaking up with me?"

Dan smiles. "Musically," he says.

She nods a little like she'd been expecting that. "I've been writing my own stuff," she says.

He isn't surprised. "I bet it's great," he says. "I'd like to hear it."

Vanessa gives him a little shove and steals the soda out of his hands. "I don't like you all timid," she says, but she smiles a little herself. "Yelling's better than that."

Dan puts his arm around her shoulders and is glad when she doesn't shrug it off. "I'll keep that in mind. I like really mean women, have you noticed that?"

When Dan goes back into the booth, he does it by himself. The label hires some backing musicians, new people without history or connection to Dan. He records a whole bunch of stuff that they cut down to ten songs – some of them his, some of them Blair's. He gets a demo of it to give to Blair first. They're love songs, he's not exactly subtle, so he wouldn't send it out without letting her have a say first. She tells him to go for it – against her better judgment, naturally.

The album does pretty well, even if he assumes most people are in it for the scandal rather the music. But that's okay. He's proud of it and that's more important. In an interview for _Rolling Stone_ , a woman with short spiky hair asks what his inspiration was.

"I guess I fell in love," Dan says.


End file.
